


A Man of Wealth and Taste

by unveiled



Category: Iron Man (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consent Issues, Crossover, Id Fic, Kink Meme, M/M, Plot What Plot, Sexism, Telepathic Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/pseuds/unveiled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier and Tony Stark love the scientific method. (See additional tags and author's notes for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Wealth and Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [kinkmeme prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7315.html?thread=12494483#t12494483) asking for Charles and Tony as childhood friends. What came out of it, I'm afraid, is an utter id fic with no redeeming plot qualities.
> 
> A warning for telepathic manipulation, implied and explicit, with varying degrees of consent. Also, period-appropriate sexism and Tony being a mouthy dickhead.

They first met when they were eleven: Charles miserable within Kurt Marko's unloving paternal embrace, Tony the indulged only child of Howard and Maria Stark. They'd eyed each other warily across the dinner table, until Tony showed Charles his plans for a jet-propelled single-pilot vehicle. Then Charles pointed out that while the _pure physics_ of Tony's plans were near-perfect, a) he'd neglected to factor in the fragile human body of the pilot and b) body armour for the pilot would necessitate an extensive reworking of the plans, rendering them moot anyway.

"Do you want to get married?" Tony asked, breathless.

Charles frowned. "I am not wearing a dress," he said, prim, then inexplicably blushed.

(He never would, despite Tony's increasingly extravagant pleas throughout the years.)

They played together a few more times after that, trading off between hunting for something many-legged and horrifically fascinating (Charles) and building something that clinked alarmingly and went _vroom_ (Tony). It was perhaps only inevitable, given the inherent unfairness of the universe, that it all ended when the two boys were discovered in the garage, to outraged shouts by the Markos, trying to put together a hovercraft from the dismantled parts of one of Howard Stark's cars.

"But Tony said I could!" Charles protested, struggling against Kurt's bruising grip.

His eyes were wide and scared and Tony knew, just _knew_ there was Something Wrong, the way how sometimes one of the Starks' housemaids disappeared and never came back. Smeared with grease and dust, he broke free from his mother. "You let go of him, you—" he yelled, launching himself at Kurt Marko.

Both Charles and Tony would agree later that this was Tony's last act of human empathy for years, though Charles always seemed to be repressing a laugh when he said so.

*****

They didn't meet again until a serendipitous soiree when they were fifteen, prodigies in their chosen fields: Charles now beyond any sense of self-consciousness, Tony growing into the heartbreaker his father joked he would be. Smart, curious, determined. Together they could be an explosion, or — as turned out — a punch.

"I didn't know you have a sister," Tony leered, blatantly following the line of Raven's skirt.

Charles didn't narrow his eyes or clench his fists or indulge in any of the stereotypical tells of a protective brother about to punch Tony in the face, but god _damn_ , did he ever follow through with it. Tony swore he saw stars. For a boy painted as a hopeless bookworm by society grapevine, Charles had a mean right hook.

Charles was also stupidly attractive, if you liked them pale and lissome (Tony liked all kinds).

And Charles was apologetic about the force of the punch, if not its intent, so of course Tony was compelled to be a good friend and offered Charles some of the Scotch he liberated for medicinal reasons; and then they were making out behind the Cardinal de Richelieu rosebushes, Charles kissing Tony's bruised lips carefully, so carefully there was barely any pain.

"You're weird," Tony said. His skin buzzed where Charles touched him, clumsy and exploratory.

Charles was quiet for a while. "A bad sort of weird?" he asked, fiddling with Tony's buttons.

"Don't be stupid." Tony remembered that Charles was an orphan again, and maybe that was it — unhappiness — the thing that lent an unearthly cast to Charles' blue eyes. "I'm a scientist, I like weird."

"Oh," Charles said, thoughtful and pleased, before leaning forward to mouth the point of Tony's chin. "That's good, because I'm about to say that you could stand to be a better kisser. We should experiment."

"I love experiments. I adore them." Tony ignored Charles' needlessly cruel assessment of his skills and slid his hands up Charles' thighs, taking pleasure in the way the muscles quivered under his touch. "Do you remember—?"

" _No_ , Tony."

Until Charles had to leave late in the night, there were a lot more kisses among rosebushes, in a lonely stairwell and, memorably, Mrs. Mortimer-Swann's bed. For science, Tony told himself, and smirked.

*****

The next time they met, they were both orphans and holders of a college degree: Tony from MIT, Charles from Harvard. They'd reached the social markers of adulthood without actually being of age for it — barely even eighteen, still recklessly convinced of immortality.

"I'm sorry about your parents," Charles offered, sad and gentle. They'd agreed to coffee in an anonymous cafe, and made it through two cups and an awkward see-you-later before they actually got around to _talking_ , on the pavement outside the door.

"Why should you be?" Tony tried for a cavalier shrug and mostly succeeded. His head was pounding from a hangover, and Charles' voice kept fading out against the background noise. Hair of the dog, that was the ticket, as soon as he could find more bourbon. "It wasn't your fault."

"Nevertheless." Charles slipped his hands into the pockets of his worn cardigan — a nervous gesture, but Charles didn't seem anxious. He radiated comfort and a promise of warmth, like linens pinned to a clothesline under the sun.

Tony stared at Charles, scratching his stubble. "Why are you even wearing that old man sweater? It's almost _summer_."

"I get cold." Charles hesitated, then said, "Come up to Salem before I leave for Oxford. Raven and I can put you up for— for however long you like."

"Fuck off," Tony snarled, vicious and enraged, feeling his grief break open again to swallow his heart whole. "I don't need your pity. You don't even know me, why the fuck would I want to leave the city—"

"Everyone needs a rest from hovering well-wishers, Tony," Charles said, cutting in neatly. "That's all I'm offering. You don't have to accept it, just know that it will always be on the table for you. From me." He peered at Tony and continued, quietly, "It's what I wish I'd been offered when Mother died."

"I'll think about it," Tony snapped, before he said anything he shouldn't, and turned to get the fuck away.

If he hadn't been so agitated, if Charles hadn't been so attuned to his distress, if that driver hadn't been in such a rush — but they all happened, and Tony was about to step off to his death when an imperative roared through his mind, freezing his limbs in place: _STOP_.

It was as if the universe drew in a deep, shaky breath and leeched everything of sound and movement; then let it out in the blur of a moving car (his would-be killer), and Tony could move again, reclaim his body for his own.

That voice—

When Tony whirled around to confront Charles — hangover and impending breakdown forgotten — he was already gone. Leaving Tony feeling like Lois Lane after Clark Kent pulled a fast one on his superhero identity, the asshole.

"That's such a cliché, Charles!" he shouted to the sky, passers-by edging around his furiously waving hands. Tony glared at a staring, open-mouthed deliveryman, about to hoist a crate of tomatoes. "What the fuck are _you_ looking at?"

Maybe picking a fight with a man whose arms would put tree trunks to shame wasn't the best of ideas, but then Tony was already shunting aside significant brain capacity towards the mystery of Charles, and how soon he could leave for the Xaviers' mansion. After a little research, of course.

*****

"I have a standing invitation."

Raven didn't look particularly impressed, or particularly willing to let Tony past the threshold.

"If you let me in, I have some blackmail pictures of your brother when he was eleven and in short pants," Tony wheedled.

"Like I wouldn't have better ones." Raven rolled her eyes. "Charles, there's a jerkface here to see you!" she called out, not taking her gaze off Tony.

"Don't be rude, Raven." Charles' face popped into view over Raven's shoulder. "Oh. Tony. I wasn't—"

"Expecting me?" Tony kicked the suitcase at his feet. "You invited me to this place. Here I am."

The two siblings exchanged a look. "I'll put him up in the lakehouse," Charles said to her. He raised an eyebrow at Tony. "You'd like it better there, I promise."

The "lakehouse" turned out to be parts of a laboratory, a workshop and a summer cottage put together in one ridiculously twee building, perched at the easternmost shore of an artificial lake. A marvel of efficient space usage and minimalist aesthetics without actually being beautiful. Tony ran his hands over the equipment inside: old but well-maintained, and all his for now.

"My father had this built so he could work here, just before the accident," Charles said. There were only two possible seats in the lakehouse: a lone chair or the bed, and Charles chose the chair. "Kurt boarded it up when he married my mother, but I reopened it for my use when _he_ died."

Tony shoved his suitcase into a corner and threw himself onto the bed. "Did he know? Your father — about the speaking in people's heads thing."

Charles paled, then his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "I'd hoped you wrote it off as instinct. Or an angel."

"Jesus, Charles, who do you think I am?" Tony rolled over, looking at Charles upside-down. Considering. "Is that all you can do? It's not, is it?"

"You're terribly calm about this."

"My father makes— _made_ weapons for government programs that sound like science fiction. Not the strangest thing I ever heard."

Tony held up a hand, counting off his fingers. "Everyone remembers you making them happy. Had too much insight into people for a kid locked up in a mansion with books." At the look that flickered across Charles' face, he said, "I made some enquiries, okay? Society gossip, etcetera. Also, the voice in my head sounded exactly like you. Occam's razor."

Charles moved off from the chair and crossed the floor, sitting hip-to-hip with Tony on the bed. "For as long as I can remember, I hear thoughts," Charles confessed softly. "With effort I can listen deeper, see what they saw. And— I can change memories. Make them think what I want them to."

Tony stared at the wooden beams across the ceiling. " _If_ you want to."

"Yes."

"But you don't."

The mattress shifted as Charles stretched out on the bed, so they were lying side by side. His fingers were cool and soft on the back of Tony's hand.

"There were times when I've found it necessary," he said. Apologetically, but Tony could hear unmovable rock under Charles' words and he remembered Charles standing over him, fist still upraised, magnificent in his ferocious protectiveness of his sister.

"Did you ever do it to me?" Tony asked.

"What? No!" Charles raised himself on an elbow, looking down at Tony, appalled.

"Hey, fair question." Tony rubbed a thumb against the corner of Charles' mouth. "I'm surprised you told me all this."

Charles smiled, and this time it was brightly, embarrassingly sincere. "You like weird. And you bit Kurt's hand for me."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tony moaned. "Never speak of that again. Ever."

Charled made a _hmm_ noise. "You _are_ taking this very well. Too well."

"Nothing to hide." Tony shrugged. "I'm not ashamed of who I am. I haven't got any deep dark secret or some burning pain in my soul—" _other than the obvious_ , he thought, knowing that Charles was picking up on it, "—and I know you won't talk. You saved my life. So. Open book."

Their eyes met.

"Tony," Charles choked out in-between fits of laughter, "your book is _disgusting_."

"That wasn't a no."

Charles kicked his nearest shin.

*****

Much to Tony's lasting regret, Charles didn't show so much as a bared leg for the first few days. Charles wanted to talk. All day, if he could help it. But he talked about _telepathy_ and _tests_ and things that made Tony's brain want to roll around in the sheer _possibilities_ of them, so he forgave Charles. The summer moved with dreamy languor, Obadiah Stane and Stark Industries seemingly farther away than they really were, just how Tony wanted it.

Finally, _finally_ , too many evenings later, Tony had Charles pinned against a tree out of view from the mansion, kissing him until they were both hard and aching, breathless. He ran the tip of his tongue around the rim of Charles' ear. "Last chance to back off."

Charles kissed him this time, messy and wet. "I want this," he whispered.

"Great," Tony said and tugged open Charles' pants without ceremony, sliding his hand inside to cup Charles' cock.

He could feel Charles making a face against his neck. "Romantic," Charles huffed.

"I'll build you a car with rocket launchers," Tony promised, stroking Charles as slowly as he could make himself. "Dozens of missiles. Also, armour plating. Tell me that's not better than roses."

Charles _mmm_ ed. "In that case—oh! I feel obliged— wait, stop, let me try something."

"Do you want a ring and a goat before we get to fuck? Please say no, I'm begging you." Tony allowed himself to be maneuvered around so he was backed up against the tree, but any ensuing complaints dried up in his mouth when Charles dropped to his knees and unzipped Tony's pants.

"I thought you're a vir—" Charles gripped Tony's cock carefully at its base and licked, sucking the head into his mouth. "Never mind, forget I said anything. Continue. _Please_."

There was just enough light for Tony to see the shape of Charles' lips around his cock, deliberate and tight. Charles was a little clumsy but the suction was perfect and Charles must be reading his mind, because that had to be the only reason why his tongue found all the right spots to rub and lick. Tony tasted salt and bitterness in his mouth and realised, thrilled and ebullient, that Charles was projecting sensation — and maybe, maybe he could see—

Tony clenched his fingers in Charles' hair, waited for a beat, and _thrust_. Charles gagged but moved with Tony, allowing himself to be directed by Tony's increasingly incoherent thoughts to suck and fondle and swallow. It didn't take long for Tony to come, feeling his orgasm like a hard punch to the back of his head.

"I was under the impression this is _your first time_ ," Tony wheezed. "Is tongue gymnastics another one of your superpowers?"

Charles looked— not embarrassed, exactly, but certainly discomfited. "I saw it in someone's mind once. Or twice."

Tony blinked.

"Telepath, Tony. Think about it." Charles licked his lips, realised he was doing it, and stopped. "I've had a ringside seat to people's fantasies for years. Even before I knew what they were."

Tony mulled it over, then clapped a hand on Charles' shoulder.

"Just so we're clear," he said solemnly. "I have absolutely no inhibitions. Whatsoever. In bed."

They couldn't get to the lakehouse fast enough.

*****

He had a lot of favourites (and no rigid hierarchy of favourites when it came to sex), but this was Tony's favourite thing to do on hot afternoons edging into sunset, when he didn't feel like doing anything but watch: Charles straddling his lap with his fingers slicked up and buried deep in Charles' ass, Charles moving slow and trembling, in no particular hurry to get to the finish line. He loved the arch of Charles' neck and the flutter of his belly, the throaty moan when he leaned forward to tug at Charles' nipples between his teeth. The taut lines of Charles' arms bracketing Tony's shoulders, turning two bodies into a closed circuit.

Charles knew Tony thought his eyes were beautiful. He knew it gave Tony a sense of accomplishment to see his control break, and that Tony genuinely enjoyed the flashes of emotion and sensation he couldn't help projecting. He knew now Tony's pleasure in the hum of a fine-tuned machine, how speed and sex made him feel immortal. He knew Tony's filthiest fantasies twice over and mapped out the complicated wirework of Tony's bleak moods.

All these, Tony knew. Charles drew everything into himself without judgment and breathed out a smile, eternally open.

*****

"I'm not sure I want _that_ in me."

"Come on, Charles. I swear it's nothing you haven't been fucked with before."

Charles flicked a pointed glare at him and back at the machine. "I can assure you, I've never fucked anything with metal gears before."

"Yet," Tony amended. "Think of it as an extension of my genius! Or my body, whichever."

Eyeing the contraption — or, to be more accurate, what protruded from it — with obvious trepidation, Charles took a step back. His glare intensified. "Tony, this can't possibly be safe to use."

"Pfft." Tony waved a hand, dismissive. "I tested it myself. You're the telepath, you know I'm not lying."

Charles still looked unconvinced, but Tony saw the beginnings of curiousity in the thoughtful press of his lips — a sure sign of victory in the near future, for a given value of "victory" (that is, orgasms for everyone and a memory to keep Tony warm on cold nights for the rest of his life).

"Fine," Charles sighed, and started to unbutton his shirt.

Tony tried not to feel _too_ smug.

*****

When Tony's mind floated up the idea, they were fucking: Charles on his back, ankles hooked over Tony's shoulders; Tony giving it to him as hard as he could. Tony shook away the idea, but it persisted in his thoughts, even as Charles begged him to stop thinking and get on with it.

"Hey, Charles," he panted, slowing down to a shivery stop. "I bet you can make me fuck you exactly the way you want me to. What do you say? Take my body for a spin."

Charles shook his head, wild-eyed. "I can't— Tony, that's not right—"

"You have my full permission."

" _No_."

Tony leaned down and kissed Charles, as sweet as he knew how. "Not to sound mushy or anything, but I trust you. Also, neither of us wants to die from blue balls."

"That's a myth." Charles screwed his eyes shut but before Tony could marshall more arguments, Charles looked back up at Tony, pressing the tips of his fingers to his head, and said, "All right, hold on."

Charles' presence in his mind was familiar now, an impression of warmth and focus. Tony had a working hypothesis that Charles was perfectly capable of stealing into someone else's mind without ever declaring himself, but he never tried with Tony. It felt strange to be at once the inhabitor and the guest in his own body, but not unpleasant. A once-in-a-lifetime experience, Tony thought, watching his hands rise to grip Charles' hips — hard, rougher than he himself would be comfortable with — tilting them just so before fucking into Charles with a ferocious, unrelenting pace.

Charles keened under him, squirming as if to escape, but Tony had to trust this was what Charles wanted. Lust uncoiled low in his belly, hungry and wanting. He surrended to the heat and the wet clench around his cock and Charles' breathless _tonytonytony_ in his head, feeling himself shake apart, falling into Charles' waiting arms.

He opened his eyes when he felt Charles stroking his hair. Charles looked _wrecked_.

"Don't think like that, no, no harm done," he said, soothing. "You can look in my head — no damage, nothing. I'm still me."

 _Sadness? denial?_ flitted across Charles' face, and he curled closer against Tony, sighing into Tony's hair. "It's not always like this."

"Yeah, but now you know it's not always like— _that_ , all the damn time. Whatever it was."

"Mmm," was Charles' only response, and Tony didn't feel like digging any further. They lay together on the damp, sticky sheets, waiting for the hour when Charles could sneak back into the main house without running into Raven.

"I never asked," Tony asked slowly, lassitude settling into his bones, "but are there more like you?"

"One other that I know of," Charles said, picking his words with care. "Not... exactly like me, but close enough." He tweaked Tony's ear. "I'd tell you, but it's not my secret to give away."

"Fair enough." He groped around for Charles' hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the palm. "Hey, I never did teach you how to pick up ladies — and gents — at a bar. We can't all fall for you batting your baby blues — you need a signature move, my friend."

"Tony, shut up before I smother you with this pillow."

"But violence is so unbecoming, Charles," he mocked, mimicking Charles' accent.

Charles rose, glaring, but instead of visiting a well-aimed pillow upon Tony's person, he merely dipped down and kissed Tony on the lips, oddly chaste. "Thank you," he said, quiet and sincere.

"Yes, because having sex with you is _such_ a burden—"

"Shut up. I'm not declaring my love for you," Charles cut in, rolling his eyes. "I'm thanking you because I've never met anyone who wouldn't be afraid of what I can do. You let me stroll through your mind as a matter of course. That's not a small thing, Tony."

"I already know I'm fucking incredible, but you're welcome." Tony gave in to a tender impulse and pressed his lips against Charles' temple. "Then I wish for you someone who'll put up with your compulsive and arbitrary morals, and accept that they're what keeps you from putting on a silly cape and becoming a pulp villain."

Charles laughed, and kissed him again.

 

 **END**

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a teeny-tiny Erik/Charles-ish epilogue [here](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7315.html?thread=13556627#t13556627).


End file.
